LOWCOUNTRY BOOKSHOP Read online

  “Since when do you read blogs?” I asked.

  “What’s a blog?” Colleen looked through the ceiling and into the vast database in the sky where she submits such inquiries. Her resource was far superior to Siri or Alexa.

  Merry shrugged. “It was a fluke. One of my kids is working at a restaurant he reviewed.” Merry was the executive director of a local non-profit that provided all manner of services to at-risk teenagers.

  “What was that the mailwoman was saying about someone having a reason to run over him?” I asked.

  “Who knows?” said Sonny. “She’s certifiable.”

  I looked at him for a long moment.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” Merry said.

  “The woman makes me think of bunnies,” I said.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess you’re right. It’s been long couple of days. I haven’t slept more than three hours since Thursday night. She’s just…she keeps showing up. Everywhere. I’m waiting for the forensic reports to see if we can tie her car to the accident. But she won’t leave me be.”

  “Does she have any connection to Phillip Drayton?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah.” Sonny raised both eyebrows, nodded. “She was his mail carrier.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “Poppy Oliver is not your average mail carrier,” said Sonny. “She takes a keen interest in the folks on her route. But I haven’t found evidence of any other connection.”

  “Why does she think someone had a reason to hit him with a car?” I asked.

  He closed his eyes. “She imagines he abused his wife.”

  “She imagines that?” I asked. “That’s a pretty serious allegation. What does the wife say?”

  “No. No. No.” Sonny shook his head, then looked around in desperation. “Where is that waitress? What the hell is wrong with me? I need more coffee. And some breakfast.”

  “What?” I gave him an innocent look. “I’m just making conversation while we wait. Merry and I are downtown to find her some hiking boots for her wedding trip, not fiddle with your hit and run.”

  “That’s right. It’s my hit and run. This is not your case.” Sonny turned to Merry, studied her like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “I never figured you for a woman who would want to rough it on her honeymoon. Or anytime, come to think of it. Isn’t that trip a bit…rustic for your tastes?”

  “What? You think I can’t handle an afternoon hike?” Merry asked.

  “Most high maintenance women want five-star hotels and room service on their honeymoons,” said Sonny. “Not tent camping and communal showers.”

  Merry, Colleen, and I burst out laughing. My sister was definitely not the tent type—neither was I, for that matter. Not that there was anything wrong with tents. Colleen’s unique bray-snort laugh got me even more tickled.

  The harder I laughed, the harder Merry laughed. Soon tears ran down both our faces. I reached for the tissues in my purse, handed one to Merry, and dabbed at my eyes. Finally, we composed ourselves.

  “The tour company we’re going with has us booked in very nice hotels.” Merry managed to get the words out as she caught her breath.

  “Huh.” Sonny raised his eyebrows. “I thought visiting that part of the world was all about exploring untouched nature.”

  “Well, it is,” said Merry. “We’ll get to see plenty of the great outdoors.”

  “They’ll have front row seats to nature,” I said. “In the lap of luxury.”

  “Hey now,” said Merry. “It’s not a bus tour. We’re going kayaking, biking, hiking, horseback riding—all that. We’ll see plenty of flora and fauna during the day. Then go back to a hot shower and a nice bed.”

  “Except on spa days.” I grinned at her.

  “Exactly,” said Merry.

  The waitress approached with Sonny’s egg platter. He moved his arms off the table and sat back to give her plenty of room.

  I eyed his breakfast. “I haven’t tried the Eggs Meeting Street. I may order that next time.” The fried green tomato, crab cake, and poached egg with remoulade sauce concoction was served with a biscuit and a side of grits. I may have looked at his plate with longing.

  He picked up his fork and crowded his food. “Stay back.”

  “Are you feeling territorial about everything this morning?” I asked.

  He ignored me and delivered a bite of breakfast to his mouth.

  Colleen said, “That girl’s in trouble and we need to help her.”

  “I guess it’s hard to afford an attorney on a mail carrier’s salary,” I mused.

  “They have this new thing called public defenders for folks who can’t afford attorneys,” said Sonny. “If she’s charged, the judge will appoint her one.”

  “Yeah, I guess a public defender could look into the wife abuse angle,” I said. Like that would happen. Public defenders didn’t have the resources to run down alternate theories of a crime. That was the province of high-dollar defense attorneys with in-house investigators.

  Colleen stared at me, smirked. What was she up to?

  “I hope they have better sense,” said Sonny.

  “The wife say she wasn’t abused?” I asked.

  “So far she’s been too upset to discuss the wild imaginings of her letter carrier. Her relatively young husband just died suddenly. I haven’t bothered her with Miss Oliver’s theories.”

  “So, she could be right as far as you know,” I said.

  “Can’t imagine what difference it would make, is my point,” Sonny said. “Phillip Drayton is dead. If he ever abused his wife, he won’t be doing it anymore. It’s not like she ran him over.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked.

  He chewed thoughtfully for a minute. “Would you pass the pepper?”

  I slid the salt and pepper shakers across the table. “Did the mail carrier see the accident?”

  “You see where that new tropical depression became a storm overnight? Idell,” said Sonny.

  My heart stuttered. I couldn’t catch my breath. That made three storms churning in the Atlantic. Most of my life I’d taken tropical storms in stride. They were simply a fact of life on the coast. But recently I’d been having nightmares. And Colleen’s cryptic warnings had heightened my awareness.

  I took a deep breath, gathered my wits. “Sonny? Did the mail carrier see the accident or not?”

  “Could I please just eat my breakfast in peace?” asked Sonny.

  I raised an eyebrow at him and forced a bite of the French toast Merry had slid onto my plate. It really was in a class by itself—a hunk of currant bread stuffed with peaches, fried up, dripping with butter and peach cider syrup.

  “Save me some of that,” said Colleen.

  We ate in silence until my natural curiosity got the better of me. “It’s a puzzlement.”

  “What’s that?” Sonny smeared butter and strawberry preserves on half his biscuit.

  “Why that mail carrier would harass you. Looks like she’d want to stay on your good side, hope you’d take her word for what happened.”

  “I told you, she’s nutty,” said Sonny.

  “You know her well, do you?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “But most people don’t hound police detectives when they want to be taken seriously.”

  “Maybe she’s just trying to do the right thing,” said Merry.

  “How’s that?” asked Sonny. “By showing up at the department unannounced, hanging out near the Draytons’ house, waiting for me, following me to breakfast? How is any of that the right thing?”

  “What is she trying to convince you of?” I asked.

  “That Phillip Drayton abused his wife, so someone probably ran into him on purpose. But it wasn’t her.”

 
“Why don’t you believe her?” I asked.

  He was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, “You coming tonight? To The Pirates’ Den?”

  “Of course we are.” Sonny and my brother Blake were in a band, The Back Porch Prophets, that played at The Pirates’ Den on Stella Maris once a month. “There must be a reason why you don’t believe her.”

  “There is.” He nodded and took another bite of his breakfast.

  “You see,” said Colleen. “She needs our help.”

  I pondered that. I couldn’t argue with Colleen. And I had strong instincts to do what I could for Poppy. But Sonny was a skilled detective and he was my friend.

  It’s not that I’d never stuck my nose into his cases before. But I’d only ever done that because someone hired me to do it. Jumping in pro bono felt like me saying I didn’t trust him to do his job.

  Sonny’s got this.

  Colleen’s green eyes flashed. “He’s made up his mind already. He’s mule-headed. And he’s wrong.”

  What do you know about this?

  “I know Poppy is telling the truth,” said Colleen.

  “If you’re not going to eat that, can I have it back?” Merry stared at the French toast on my plate.

  “I’m eating it.” I cut off a bite, swirled it in syrup, and popped it in my mouth with a look that said, See?

  The blues rift ringtone on my iPhone announced a call from Nate.

  “I just got a call from your favorite attorney,” he said when I answered. His tone alerted me that he was being facetious.

  “Do tell,” I said. “And what does Fraser Rutledge, Esquire, want?” I had ambivalent emotions about the Broad Street attorney we’d worked a case for a few months back. His tendency to patronize me worked my nerves.

  “To hire us.”

  “We’ve already turned him down.” Fraser and his partner had offered us a spot as their in-house investigators. Nate and I liked our independence.

  “He wants us to look into something for one of his clients—contract work, like before. What do you think?” Nate asked.

  I sighed. “I think Rutledge and Ratcliffe pay their bills promptly, we need to set aside money for taxes and insurance on the house, we’re going to have to paint soon, and we need a new roof. Why are you hesitating?”

  “The man has a habit of antagonizing you, which I don’t care for,” said Nate.

  “I can handle Fraser Alston Rutledge the third.”

  “He wants to meet with us at one p.m.”

  “Today?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It has to be today?” My eyes met Merry’s. We’d planned this day for weeks.

  “If we want the case,” said Nate. “That’s what he says, anyway. If I tell him we’ll be there Monday morning, I’m betting he’ll decide that works for him.”

  “See him today.” Colleen went to glowing. That was usually a sign something was important.

  I telegraphed regret with my eyes to my sister. “Better tell him we’ll see him at one.”

  TWO

  The law offices of Fraser Alston Rutledge III and his partner, Eli Radcliffe, sat a few doors down from East Bay on Broad Street. The building dated back to 1856—a two-story, rusty-pink stucco affair with large palladium windows. A carved globe, scroll, and book in the parapet testified to its original purpose—a bookstore. I could smell history as we walked through the door.

  Mercedes Westbrook, Fraser’s assistant, greeted us. Cool, thin, and elegant, Mercedes could’ve done well for herself as a runway model. She escorted us to Fraser’s cypress-paneled office on the second floor. He and Eli stood as we walked in. Fraser wore a pale blue seersucker suit with a navy bow tie. Cut short on the sides, his brown hair stood straight up on end across the top of his head. It wasn’t unattractive—it just wasn’t a style commonly worn by the gentlemen who ran in his social circle. In a tailored, charcoal grey suit, pale grey shirt, and slate grey tie, Eli Radcliffe might have stepped off the cover of GQ. He was tall and solid, with skin the color of milk chocolate truffles. Both men’s families had been in Charleston since long before the building we occupied.

  “Miz Talbot. Mr. Andrews.” Fraser extended a hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. You remember my partner, Eli Radcliffe.”

  We all said hello, shook hands, and settled into the same chairs we’d occupied back in May, the first time we’d done investigative work for the firm. Colleen perched in the same spot on the corner of Fraser’s desk. She’d changed into a pink flowered sundress for the occasion. Mischief danced in her eyes.

  “What can we help you with?” asked Nate.

  “I assume you all have heard the news of Phillip Drayton’s untimely death,” said Fraser.

  I cut my eyes at Colleen. This could not be a coincidence. “Yes,” I said.

  “No.” Nate spoke at the same time, glanced my way.

  Colleen smirked. I purely hated it when she smirked.

  “Hit and run,” said Fraser. “Happened late Thursday night, right at the end of his driveway over on Lenwood.”

  “Charleston PD is still investigating, I believe,” I said.

  “That is what I am told, Miz Talbot.” Fraser savored every honeyed word that passed his lips so much that he rarely used a contraction. The cadence of his voice brought to mind a tent revival preacher.

  We waited for him to continue.

  Eli said, “We have a client who would like to offer the authorities assistance by way of additional manpower. This client has authorized us to hire an independent investigative team.”

  “Naturally, we immediately thought of the two of you.” Fraser looked at Nate as he spoke. Then his gold, brown-flecked eyes settled on me.

  “We appreciate your confidence,” said Nate. “But what makes your client think the police need assistance with this case?”

  “I am afraid that information is confidential,” said Eli.

  Fraser cast Eli a quelling glance. “Why, our law enforcement officers are perennially understaffed and stretched thin, are they not? This is merely a precaution.”

  “Is there a reason your client didn’t come to us himself—or herself?” I asked. “I understand asking for a recommendation, but why not hire us directly?”

  “Because this client wishes to remain anonymous,” said Eli.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry,” Nate said. “We can’t help you.”

  “What you mean,” said Fraser, “is that you do not want to help us.”

  Nate spread his arms, palms up. “I mean that’s not the way we do business.”

  “We don’t work for anonymous clients,” I said.

  “Oh, no, no,” said Fraser. “I am afraid you misapprehend the situation. Eli and I would be your clients. Just like on the Gerhardt case.”

  “Any party who has an interest in this case very likely has information regarding this case,” I said. “The first thing we do is talk with everyone involved. Not knowing who wants Phillip Drayton’s death investigated—or why—would tie our hands.”

  “Now, Miz Talbot, I assure you that is not the case,” said Fraser. “Our client merely has a soft spot for a young woman who has become entangled in the police department’s investigation. A young woman who our client is convinced is innocent of any involvement in Phillip Drayton’s death.”

  “Poppy Oliver. Of course.” I raised an eyebrow at Colleen, which naturally, Fraser completely misinterpreted.

  “Told you so.” Colleen’s voice had a sing-song quality.

  Nate and Fraser both stared at me, Nate with confusion, Fraser suspicion.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” said Eli. “Our client insists that Miss Oliver was merely the unlucky soul who happened upon the scene of a hit and run moments after it happened, in the midst of torrential rain.”

  “
And she tried to help him,” said Colleen. “No good deed goes unpunished in this world, that’s for sure.”

  “How could your client know that unless he or she witnessed the incident?” I asked.

  “Because our client has known Miss Oliver for a number of years, and can vouch for her moral rectitude,” said Fraser.

  “Sadly, good character doesn’t come with a forcefield against accidents,” I said.

  “That’s true,” said Eli, “but honorable people tell the truth about what happened. Our client is certain Miss Oliver is telling the truth.”

  Nate said, “Just so I understand the facts, Miss Oliver was on the scene when the police arrived? But claims she didn’t hit Phillip Drayton?”

  “Correct,” said Fraser.

  “Was her car damaged?” I asked. Sonny had said that he hadn’t tied her car to the accident yet.

  Eli said, “Miss Oliver drives an older car, which does have a dent on the front end, but that dent has been there since she purchased the car. As I understand it, the unusual amount of rain in combination with a King Tide, which led to street flooding, has complicated the forensic investigation. Miss Oliver maintains that she happened upon Mr. Drayton lying in the street.”

  “The detective assigned to the case seems disinclined to believe her,” said Fraser.

  “It’s Sonny’s case,” I said to Nate.

  Nate lifted his chin, nodded slightly. “Sonny Ravenel is a solid detective, and a friend. That’s one more reason this is a bad idea.”

  Colleen went to glowing. “Even the best detectives get it wrong sometimes. Poppy needs our help. Sonny too.”

  Nate closed his eyes, muttered under his breath.

  Fraser looked at Nate. “If that is how you feel about it, I suppose I will have to call someone else.” He stood.

  “That won’t be necessary.” I kept my voice neutral. “Nate…”

  “Fine.” Nate shook his head. “Fine.”

  “We’ll look into it,” I said.

  Fraser looked from me to Nate, then back, unexpressed commentary in his eyes. “Very well then.” He raised his voice. “Mercedes.”

  Mercedes opened the door and glided into the room. She placed some documents in front of Fraser.